Pyramid Peak, Eagle Mountain

 04/14/26

Dry lips and sore legs greeted me at dawn, the morning lazy and lethargic. I got up, ate the last of my muffins, and then stepped outside. What a day, what a day. Cool temps, crisp skies, perfect weather. Only the faint odor of damp earth reminded me of the previous day's hectic thunderstorms, the memory of them ephemeral, slowly evaporating from my mind. 

And I walked around, woke up the ol' legs, drank some water, took a wee. Pyramid Peak loomed in the distance, and, truth be told, I didn't really want to climb it. Legs hadn't fully recovered from yesterday's antics on Telescope Peak and such. But I couldn't let this beautiful weather go to waste. Plus the peak looked interesting and I'm a big fan of all things interesting so I figured, ehh, might as well give it a looksie. And so I packed up my stuff, started the car, drove out of "The Pads" and down the road for about 1 minute before pulling off and starting a long walk through open desert towards the base of this most interesting mountain. 

Pyramid Peak

Alright, I'll be honest. This peak didn't look interesting at all. I'll admit that. Just told myself it was interesting as an excuse to climb it. The thing looked utterly gigantic, a massive conglomeration of red, white, brown and black, of jagged ridges and deep ravines, its massive bulk rising out of the open desert like something out of a bad dream. And I walked on through the desert, the dirt crunching underneath, the skies clear, the temps more than agreeable. Yellow and white and purple remnants of the superbloom could be seen all around, the tiny little flowers painting this otherwise hostile landscape in a delicate fashion, softening the harshness, elevating the terrain into something quite beautiful. And I walked along through the open desert, the morning nice and cool, Pyramid Peak growing closer and closer, growing more and more massive with each passing step. Ahh yes. This was gonna suck. 

Through the desert, the flowers, the creosote and cactus, though dirt and rocks and pokey shrubs and in and out of a wash I continued on, entering a wide canyon and turning left in order to gain access to my chosen saddle. I passed an old metal barrel of unknown origin. Passed a mean lookin' wasp. And then I was at the base of the climb to the saddle and the scenic walk through the desert had finally come to an end and now it was time for up, up, up. And I saw the first sign of human activity in the form of a cairn and ahh yes, another cairn and hey, wouldn't you know it, a nice use trail snaking its way up to the saddle. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought. I changed gears, my mind now solely fixated on the effort of the slog, and slowly began the steep ascent to the saddle.

Heading to the base of the saddle

Hiking up to the saddle

And the trail was good and the trail was bad and there was a cairn here and there and it was obvious where to go. Just had to go up. Up is where you have to go. You'll get there eventually. And wouldn't you know it, I, yes, ME got there eventually and I was drenched in sweat and was regretting my decision to hike in sweatpants but how could I be mad—they were simply doing their job. So I rolled them up to my thigh and that seemed to do the trick, and I took a quick swig and looked at the remaining climb. Still had a long way to go. So much vert, so much vert. Doubt creeped into my mind, but I thought ehh, I'll just slow down. And that's what I did, simply inhaled the fresh desert air and took it easy, one simple little step at a time. 

Pyramid Peak from the saddle

So much vert...

Looking back 

And those simple little steps really payed off; I was making good progress, expansive desert views stretching all around me. The use trail helped me get through some interesting sections, keeping things nice and straightforward. Sometimes it would disappear, but, like the climb to the saddle, it was very obvious where to proceed. Up and up and up, that was the name of the game. Up dirt and rocks, big rocks, little rocks, rocks that broke apart, rocks that looked mean and sharp, rocks so fine and crumbly they made me perform the ritual one-step-forward-two-steps-back dance, again and again, up through shale and looseness, up hard-packed dirt and solid awesomeness. Up. Up. Up. Yep. That's all there was to it. 

Eventually, I reached the top of a particularly long and steep section, two cairns on one side and the other marking an invisible doorway to another domain. And I passed through the cairns and entered a land of black rock, the summit still a long way off. And I climbed up to the top of another steep section, following the use trail as is weaved its way through the black rocks, eventually topping out and gifting me with a view of an extremely rugged ridge.  

The land of black rocks

A rugged ridge

And this is where things got interesting. Real interesting. Had to go down for a change. Who woulda thought? Satisfied with the momentary change of pace, I followed the use trail as it dropped down and skirted the side of the crazy looking ridge. A more adventurous soul coulda proceeded directly through the ridge without losing much vert, but as for me, the coward, I kept things nice and easy. 

Moseying along, the use trail finally started heading up again, weaving in and around some class 2 stuff, the land of black rocks transitioning to a land of quartz. Peculiar rock formations rested here and there, carved through the eons by wind and rain. Bright quartz, shiny rocks, rugged formations—almost felt like I was walking through the ancient remnants of a grand crystal cathedral. The breeze picked up, whisking away the droplets from my salty face. I looked around at the brilliant scene. Ahh yes. The summit was close. Just a few minutes to go. Tick tock, tick tock and violà—I was there.

Looking back at the ridge

Telescope Peak in the distance

A peculiar rock formation

Pyramid Peak summit

The views were quite similar to what I'd already seen on the way up, although now I could see pretty much everything north and west, including the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. How pretty, how nice. There was Mt. Whitney in all its glory, snowy and cold and distant. And there was Lone Pine Peak and Mt. Williamson and, could it be, Olancha Peak, standing there way off and away from everybody, tall and lonely and wistful. And the desert stretched out before me, little patches of yellow here and there, the sky a blue jewel, Telescope Peak and Co. still covered in snow from yesterday's storm, Charleston Peak covered with a dusting of its own, rising out of the desert to the east. And everything was nice and cool, the country nice and quiet, everything rugged and crazy and weird, mountain ranges visible in all directions, their summits mysterious and captivating. So I sat on down and enjoyed the fruits of my labor, marveling at the radiant elegance of springtime in the desert. 

North

Southeast

Southwest

Northwest

A blurry Mt. Whitney and Co.

I examined the register, that, like those on Wildrose and Telescope, came in the form of a fancy green book. Placed in 2012, the thing had several entries, the most recent from just 3 days prior. There was also a smaller register that had been placed by the Sierra Club; this too had entries going back to 2012 but for whatever reason nobody had signed it after 2022. Seems like the book is the more popular of the two. I made my marks, closed up the book, took one last 360° sweep of the land, and then began what I knew would be a complete knee-killing descent. 

Heading down...

Down, down, down, retracing my steps, following the ol' use trail, walking through the land of quartz, skirting the crazy ridge, climbing up to the land of black rocks, down, down down. 'Twas a lot easier on the lungs going down, but my oh man were my legs sore. They eventually found a groove, a sort of perpetual squat and wobble, dancing up and down the loose rock and dirt like a cat trying to do ballet. And I boot-skied down the loose sections and slowed down on the tricky sections, occasionally using my hands for balance. The weather kept getting better and better, the sky more and more clear, the temps absolutely perfect, the springtime desert terrain a delight for the eyes. I took my time, heading down the mountain at a leisurely pace, enjoying the light and the sky and the little purple and pink flowers blooming on the cacti. 

Back to desert walkin'

And I made it to the saddle and hiked off the thing down into the desert, finally off the mountain, finally back to pleasant desert walking. By now the sun was reaching its zenith and everything was bright and brilliant and wonderful, springtime sunshine bathing everything in the best lighting imaginable. Everything seemed so fresh, so clean. And I walked along, out of the mountains, out into the wide, flat expanse of desert, walking in a straight line to the tiny speck of my parked vehicle. And there were lizards and bugs and creepy-crawlies out doing creepy-crawly things. And then there was a jackrabbit and it saw me and darted off into the bushes, never to be seen again. The desert was wide awake, popping with life, with energy. Too bad I couldn't use any of that energy. By the time I got back to my car my legs were quite dead. 

Tiny white flowers

An old bottle

I changed into shorts, sat in the car, munched on the last of the meat sticks and crackers. I was almost out of food; just had one freeze-dried meal left. The smart thing to do would've been to call it a day and drive on out of there, maybe stop in Pahrump for lunch or something. My legs were dead, my hips sore, but my spirits had never been so high. I needed more, needed something nice and quick, something awesome and inspiring, a crowning touch to finish what was turning out to be one of (if not the best) weekend trips of my life. And I knew exactly what this something would be. I'd seen it that morning. Saw it from the summit of Pyramid Peak. Saw it on the way down, saw it while walking through the desert, saw it rising up out of the flatland, a lonely, isolated, jagged-looking island in the sky. Eagle Mountain. Yep. It was happening. 

Eagle Mountain

Water in the desert

I drove off to Death Valley Junction and turned right, windows down, heading along State Route 127 to some random dirt road that marked the start of the climb to Eagle Mountain. Bumping along, I saw an old white truck parked on the road. Now who could that be? Who in their right mind would be way out here in the middle of nowhere on a random Tuesday afternoon? Another mountain climber perhaps? Only one way to find out. I got out, grabbed my poles, and started walking.

The steep west chutes of Eagle Mountain

Going up...

I'd read very little about Eagle Mountain. Just knew it was nice and short and that I had to stay on route, follow the cairns, stuff like that. Going off route meant encountering some cliffy terrain. And me no likey no cliffy terrain. And so, walking through the desert, I gazed at the steep west face of Eagle Mountain, trying to discern what the correct route actually was. As I got closer a cairn popped up, and then another. Seemed like they wanted me to hike up the left chute. So that's what I did.

Holy guacamole, that thing was steep. But the rock was excellent; nice, sharp, grippy limestone as far as the eye could see. Quite the change of pace from my time sloggin' it up that blasted white sandstone in Zion. This stuff was gourmet. I was lovin' it. 

And I hiked up and up, the going no harder than class 2, maybe a little easy class 3 sprinkled here and there just to keep things interesting. And I found that I didn't really need poles and kinda just lugged them along for the ride but hey, at least I wasn't wearing sweatpants anymore. That was a plus. A nice cold breeze on the ol' legs was more than enough to egg them on, and, though completely tired, they carried me up the west face to a crazy saddle near the summit. 

A view from the crazy saddle

Following a use trail to the summit

A final, exciting class 3 obstacle

From there on out it was pretty straightforward: a lovely, well-worn use trail took me the rest of the way to the final climb to the summit. It skirted to the west, the surrounding views absolutely astounding. Cliffs to my left, wide open desert to my right. Yessir. Doesn't get much better than that.

And the trail wrapped around a corner and I followed it straight to final climb: an exciting class 3 scramble up good rock with solid holds. A lone trekking pole was sticking out of the ground at the base of the climb. This must belong to the owner of the truck I'd seen wayyy down at the bottom. Which meant that they were probably hangin' out at the summit. I'd have to say hello. I tightened my shoes, secured my poles, and then began the exhilarating final scramble to the summit. 

There was an old man up there. Dressed in a bright orange sun hoody and tan colored pants with sunscreen on his face and sporting a big ol' beard and dark sunglasses, this guy seemed to know what he was doing. And we greeted each other and shared some time on the summit, exchanging stories, talking about life and mountains and stuff like that. Learned that he'd climbed this mountain at least 50 times. Learned that he'd climbed most of the peaks in the Sierra. Learned that he knew and had hiked with all these renowned local peakbaggers and climbers. And the more we talked the more I realized that I was talking to a genuine legend, a guy who knew these mountains and this desert better than most people on this planet. It ain't everyday that you meet a legend. Especially in the middle of nowhere on top of a mountain on a random Tuesday afternoon. 

The legend

And we talked for quite a while, time passing slowly, the colors shifting, changing, the breeze growing lighter and lighter. And then we said our goodbyes and he told me he'd see me on the way down and I said something profound like, "Ok" and then he set off, climbing down the class 3 section like someone half his age. And I sat down and checked out the register, inside which were two booklets. The older of the two was placed in 1981, and I saw the legend's name in there more than a dozen times. The newer one was placed in 2000, with the most recent entry (other than the legend's) from 9 days prior. And I made my marks and stood up and looked around, enjoying the airy summit one last time before heading back down. Wide open spaces, patches of yellow, salty white swaths of nothingness, towering mountain ranges, Telescope Peak to the west, Charleston Peak to the East, vast, immense, marvelous desert in all directions. Yep. This was a good one. Short, steep, exciting, scrambly, good rock, good views. If there's any mountain to climb 50 times, this is it. Standing there in the sun and the breeze, I knew, someday, I'd be back. 

South(ish)

East

North

West

And then I grabbed my pack and began the quick descent back to the car. My legs had gone through all five stages of grief by this point and were running on pure emotion. I retraced my steps, carefully climbing down the class 3 section, pausing once or twice to observe the insane views just one more time. And then it was back on the trail, back to the saddle, down, down, down, things wrapping up, the day in diminuendo, the symphony coming to an end, slowly, slowly, nice and quiet and peaceful.

Looking back at the summit

Looking down the class 3 section

Back on the trail...

Heading back to the saddle...

And I caught up to the legend and he wished me well and we parted ways, most likely to never cross paths ever again. And I took a different way on the descent, managing to keep things class 2 or under the whole rest of the way, keeping an eye out for cairns and such, careful not to end up in some class 5 terrain. A moment here and a moment there and soon I was back to the flatlands, back to the pretty desert, out of the steep stuff, back to good, clean, fairly level walking. And I walked on back to the car and started 'er up and drove on out of there, the day finished, the symphony complete, every goal met, nothing on my mind but a strong sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. What a day, what a day...

Heading back down the west side

And I drove on through Pahrump and into the outskirts of Vegas and I stopped at a restaurant and got me a big ol' burger and salty fries and they coulda been endless but that's ok, I made the mistake, I'll simply have to go back. And I got on the 15 and took it all the way back to Utah, driving into the night, gettin' home nice and late. And that was it. Wow, what a weekend. That's all there is to say. Drained me through physically, that's for sure. I was sore for days afterwards. But mentally—wow, what a weekend. Can't come up with the words to describe it. 

Telescope Peak

There was wind. Lots of wind. And it was blowin' the clouds over the high mountains, big, dark, scary lookin' clouds that snarled and spit and probably bit for all I knew. And I drove around the north side of Las Vegas, avoiding the hullabaloo, taking Highway 95 to freedom, stoppin' only once for expensive gas at a casino in the middle of nowhere. And the wind was rippin' and tiny little raindrops were blowin' all the way from the high mountains to the south and they were dark-lookin' mountains, scary-lookin' mountains, things mighty stormy up there, definitely not a good place to be. 

And I drove on through Amargosa Valley and south on State Route 373 to Death Valley Junction and hooked a right and coasted on down to the park, eyeballin' Bat Mountain and Pyramid Peak along the way. And the wind was roarin' down there and kickin' up dust and sand across the horizon and I stopped at the visitor center at Furnace Creek and asked the Ranger for the weather on Telescope Peak para la mañana. And the Ranger said that there was a high of 40℉ and a chance of snow showers in the afternoon. Said it was "gonna be cold up there," but that was expected; I had brought all the warm stuff. Puffy jacket, long underwear, sleepin' bag, extra socks. I was good to go. 

And so I drove on up the road, right on past Stovepipe Wells and Emigrant Campground and hooked a left onto Emigrant Cyn Road and drove all the way up through the desert and into the high country, nothin' but sagebrush and yellow flowers for miles and miles and miles. And the snow-capped summit of Telescope Peak rose in the distance and it looked nice and good and fine, a feast for the eyes, sustenance for the soul. And I drove on past Wildrose Campground and the road suddenly turned to dirt and I followed it all the way to the famous Charcoal Kilns, the things tall, empty, silent, reticent. Those things don't talk, they reveal nothing, nothing but a faint smokey aroma, pleasant on the nose, a nostalgic fragrance, one that calls to mind memories of family BBQ's and stories 'round the campfire and stuff like that.

Charcoal Kilns

And I poked my head inside a few of 'em and they all looked the same and the acoustics on the inside tripped out my mind and so it was time to get out of there. And I coasted up the road, careful on the ruts, careful not to pop a tire, goin' slow and steady, my gasoline-munchin' beast slowly crawlin' up the grade to Mahogony Flat Campground. And there were only two other folks there and they were all cooped up inside their vehicles and at 8,133ft the wind was blastin' through the Pinyon Pines and it was mighty mighty cold up there I tell yah. 

And so I picked a spot and decided to sleep in my car (a tent in the wind...nah nah nah, no thank you) and I set up my bag and stuff and put on the puffy jacket and walked around the camp, lookin' at some of the views. And Wildrose Peak could be seen to the northwest and it looked mighty mighty fine, and off to the east, thousands of feet below, sprawled the glowing white saltiness of Badwater Basin, things lookin' mighty mighty warm down there. Ahh, to be in the warmth. And so I retreated to the car, got in the ol' sleeping bag, read Life, the Universe and Everything until it got dark, went outside for a brief tinkle, the last rays of light casting brilliant colors on the horizon, the wind roaring, my face freezing, the spindly branches of the Pinyon Pines moving this way and that, the evening absolutely gorgeous, the stars already brilliant. And then it was back to the warmth of the car and an evening of tossin' and turnin' and ever so slowly fallin' asleep to the sound of the wind blastin' through the pines into the infinite night. 

View from my chosen campsite

Wildrose Peak from Mahogony Flat

And when I awoke there was frost on the inside of my vehicle and I really didn't want to go outside but I had to, I just had to, and so I munched on some junk food, suited up, and then began the nice walk to the summit. 

The wind was long gone, the sky, endless, not a cloud to be seen, the dirt crunchy underfoot, the sun yet to make its dramatic appearance over the serene desert landscape. And I moved up the trail, breath steaming out of my gaping mouth, the views already mind-boggling, and I walked and walked and walked and then—ZAM—ahh yes, the sun, it had finally arrived, bringing with it beautiful orange light and much needed warmth. 

Telescope Peak

And Telescope Peak finally came into view, brilliantly illuminated in an early morning sunbath. And I walked along, following the trail, the thing now heading west, views of Panamint Valley and rugged desert mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, the distant snow-covered Sierra standing tall in the distance, Mt. Whitney clearly visible, the thing lookin' cold and scary and wonderful and fantastic all at the same time. 

Panamint Valley and the distant Sierra

And I rounded a corner and Telescope Peak was there, a bit closer now, the summit calling to me, beckoning me to continue onward, and I eagerly listened and obeyed and floated on up the trail, hungry to reach the top, my soul full of longing to see what I imagined would be the best views I'd ever see in my entire life. And the sky was clear and bright, the desert sprawled around me to the east and west, everything grand and wide and expansive and incomprehensible, simply incomprehensible.

Gettin' closer...

And the trail crossed over to the east, the grade gettin' steeper, patches of snow on the ground, footprints marking the correct path. And there was a faint little wisp of a cloud in the sky, barely noticeable. But it grew bigger and bigger, and it must have called its friends 'cause soon there was a whole bunch of little clouds in the sky and they all converged into one big gigantic gray opaque wall of churning coldness, completely blocking all views to the east. And they grew and grew, growing more and more dense by the minute, rising up into the sky, spilling over the ridge to the north, obscuring most of what I'd just walked across. And the peak was still visible but not for long, so I scurried on up the rest of the way at maximum speed with the hope of reaching the summit before it became hidden in the ever-growing clouds.

Telescope Peak summit

And I walked and skipped and slid and hopped and finally— there it was—the glorious summit, and it was rocky and gray and cold and the clouds had mostly beaten me to the top and so I sat down and put on more layers and looked around at what I could. And the clouds rose like steam off a boiling pot of water and they blocked most of the views to the north and east, nothin to see but an opaque scene of churnin' and swirlin' chaos. And they were spreading out to the south, spilling over the rest of the Panamint Range, reachin' for the desert on the other side but vaporizing before they could even smell the sand. And off to the west, way out there, the Sierra had clouds of their own, Mt. Whitney no longer visible, things lookin' stormy over there. And so I sat down on the summit and shivered in the cold, the sun obscured behind the wall of gray, sat there and read the entries in the register and hoped for a miracle that these clouds would bugger off while knowing full well that they'd only get bigger and darker and crazier. They were there to stay. All the hoping in the world couldn't move those clouds. Nor sirree bob. 

North

East

Northwest

South

The register was brand-spankin' new; the thing only had four entries in it (not including mine) with one for April 9th and the other three for April 11th, just two days prior. And I made my marks and closed it up and looked inside the other ammo cans near the summit, one containing an empty plastic water bottle and the remnants of an old register booklet and the other with some binoculars and a polaroid and business cards and stuff like that. And though it was still early in the morning I knew that a storm was brewin', I knew that the forecasted "chance of afternoon snow showers" was gonna hit a lot sooner than expected, and so, with nothing better to do, I gathered my things, said goodbye to Telescope Peak and retraced my steps off the mountain, the massive wall of gray nothingness swallowing me whole. 

A snowy section

And I popped out the other side and continued to lose elevation, walking along an alpine ridge full of sagebrush and limber pines, the clouds spilling over the side like ocean waves into a lifeboat. And sometimes I'd enter one of these waves and it was back to gray, and then moments later it would disappear and I'd be back the the land of visibility, the land of color and sound and texture and depth, and the clouds were winning their battle, no longer evaporating over the side, now breaking up into little chunks and casting crazy shadows on the spunky desert terrain thousands of feet below. And the light danced on the sand and rocks and I looked around at the clouds and the snow and the sagebrush and it was all unbelievable; I ain't ever seen something so unique in my life. 

Telescope Peak in the clouds

And I continued along, Telescope Peak's summit now deeply enveloped in clouds, things lookin' a little stormy up there. And I left the trail and went on up to Bennett Peak, 'cause, why not? It was right there and it looked easy and so I scampered on up to the summit, the thing completely soaked in a thick soup of grayness. And little tiny snowflakes began to fall and my face was freezin' and I started heading off the summit, visibility awful, couldn't see no more than 50ft in any direction. And I got turned around and had to use the GPS for the first time in my life (just to get reoriented) and I found the trail and then hit up Rogers Peak, a small bump covered in radio towers and such. 

Bennett Peak 

Rogers Peak

Headin' back...

A break in the clouds

And I got turned around on the descent from Rogers Peak, headin' a little too far west, and I had to use the GPS yet again to get myself back on track. And I hit the trail and coasted on down the thing, the temps droppin' little by little, the air rumblin' with a slight breeze, the tiny little snowflakes gettin' slightly bigger with each passing moment, the clouds churnin' and swirlin', not a slice of blue sky to be seen.

And then I ran into a dude making his way up the trail. We chatted, mostly about the weather. He seemed hopeful, expecting the clouds to break up any moment. I told him that it would likely get worse. "You think it'll get worse or you KNOW it's gonna get worse" is what he said. Good lord. What am I, a meteorologist or something? I told him that yes, I didn't know for sure, but by the looks of it, the weather was likely to worsen in the coming hours. He said, "alright" and continued on regardless, headin' up the trail to some unknown destination. 

And I walked on down and made it back to camp and there was a group of three heading up, all of them wearing rain jackets and gloves and stuff. And I sat in my car and munched on some Pop Tarts and the snow was letting off now, things were clearing up, patches of blue sky started cropping up, the coming storm possibly withering away. Perhaps my prediction was wrong. I thought about it for a while, the weather holding steady, more blue sky appearing as the minutes passed one after the other. Yep. Alright. Ok. Things were definitely lookin' better. And you know what that means. Time for another peak!

Startin' to clear up

The trail to Wildrose Peak

Wildrose Peak

And so I put the beast in 1st and coasted down the road out of Mahogany Flat to the Charcoal Kilns, parking along the side of the road and immediately hittin' up the trail for Wildrose Peak. I'd seen it yesterday and it looked like a cool summit and hopefully, hopefully, the thing would have some views. And so, dressed in sweatpants and fleece and tie, carrying with me a water bottle, rain jacket and GPS, I speed-walked up the trail, the scenery pleasant on the eyes, the temps finally warming up a bit.

Heading up the trail

Nearing Wildrose Peak 

Things lookin' stormy on Rogers Peak

And my legs were tight and I was drippin' sweat and I passed a few folks, all of them heading down. And Wildrose Peak suddenly came into view, the summit no longer clear. A small line of clouds decided to set up shop at the top, and they didn't look like they were gonna leave any time soon. Ah well. I was close. I was gonna climb it. It had to be done. And by cracky, I was gonna do it. 

Switchback after swithback, up and up, some views coming into focus now, the desert far below, the bumpy mountains of the Panamint Range stretching off to the south. The weather over by Rogers Peak had definitely worsened; the thing was shrouded in these dark, menacing, angry lookin' clouds. But things were still lookin' good for Wildrose so I pressed on, reaching the top in good time, views to the west, south and east decent, a thick wall of gray blocking all views to the north.

Storm clouds on Wildrose Peak

. 

And I sat on down and opened up the register and made my marks, the most recent entry made just the day prior. Some crazy duo from Chicago had decided to climb up during the wind advisory; "windy, but amazing" is what they wrote. And as I was sittin' there a bunch of snowflakes began to fall on the pages, and I looked around me and the weather had changed dramatically for the worse, and things were lookin' stormy all around me, and the wind picked up and the flakes dropped with purpose and the clouds swallowed me whole and before I knew it I was right in the middle of a snowstorm on top of a dang mountain. Damn. Not a good spot to be.

Gettin' stormy...

Gettin' real stormy...oh man...

And that woke me up and I started jogging off the mountain, cuttin' the switchbacks, trying to get out of there as fast as I could. And the clouds got darker and the wind, stronger and everything smelled wet and cold and crazy and the snowflakes got bigger and bigger and they were comin' down like somebody spilled a gigantic salt shaker in the sky and they were covering the trail and I couldn't believe how quickly things were turning for the worse and then—CRRRACK! BANG! WHOOSH! Oh lord, oh hell no. CRRRACK! BANG! WHOOSH! Oh HELL no.

It sounded like the sky was ripping apart. Felt the rumble in my chest, felt a buzzin' in my ears. 'Twas the loudest thunder I'd ever heard in my entire life. And it was close, REAL close. Didn't see the lightning, but I knew it was there. And so I picked up the pace, my sore legs no longer sore, my feet no longer cold. Damn near sprinted down the trail, my heart skipping a beat every time I heard another earth-shattering rumble in the sky. And the snow pelted my face and the trail was slowly disappearing, but I was locked-in and focused and firing on all cylinders and I managed to find my way back, finally stopping the sprint once I'd made it a good ways down the mountain. 

Real stormy up there...

And I walked along, my feet crunching in the brand-new snow, the flakes still coming down hard, the thunder still roarin' in the sky, but it was fainter now, the storm moving away from me, at least for the moment. And I laughed and chuckled and said, "Well, at least the forecast was correct" and I enjoyed this interesting winter weather in the high desert, the air filled with the pitter-patter of fat snowflakes hittin' the cold, hard ground.

And I made it back to the trailhead and there were a few other folks there pokin' their heads in the Charcoal Kilns and there were little kids runnin' around enjoying the snow and screamin' and laughin' and just having a jolly good time. And I hopped in the car, turned the heater on full blast, wiped the snow off the windshield and then coasted on out of the mountains, driving through snow and sleet and rain until finally encountering some blessed sunshine. 

Down the road, out of the high country, back into the desert, back to the land of rocks and sand and sun and warmth. Ahh, warmth. What a treat, what a wonderful thing. And I pulled into Stovepipe Wells and ate another Pop Tart and I changed clothes and walked over to the benches just outside of the gas station and I sat and soaked up the sun and watched the stormin' chaos taking place over the Panamint Mountains, infinity glad that I was no longer there, grateful to be far, far away from all that jazz. And my phone was nearly dead and my battery pack was dead from the cold and so I walked inside and bought me a cable and the six pack of Pacifico called to me like the Green Goblin mask does to Norman Osborn but I resisted the temptation and drove on out of there, windows down, scattered thunderstorms everywhere, the air heavy with moisture. 

And I was enjoying the ride and feelin' about done for the day, but the afternoon was just so terribly scenic and splendid and I couldn't let it go to waste, so, rather stupidly, I decided I had to do at least one other thing before callin' it quits. And so I drove over to Zabriskie Point and quickly hiked up to the little overlook, the views great, the scenery barren and strange and alien looking and awesome.

View from Zabriskie Point

Zabriskie Point on the way to Red Cathedral

And I wanted more and so I hit up the weird trail to Red Cathedral, the lighting and scenery absolutely crazy, scattered thunderclouds dumping rain at random spots across the barren desert, the wind rustlin' my shirt, my legs runnin' on nothin' but hopes and dreams. I'd hiked to the base of Red Cathedral about two years ago on my little day trip to the valley to see the ephemeral Lake Manly, but I never knew you could actually reach the top. Well, the time was now, and I had to seal the deal, finish the chapter, make it official, wrap it up, no loose ends, no unfinished business. And I walked along, the trail awesome, the views far superior to those seen at Zabriskie point, the terrain rugged and rocky and insane, the colors fantastic, nothin' but red and purple and yellow and white and brown.

Scattered thunderstorms

And I reached the summit and it was nice and fine and good and I could see the snow-capped Panamint Mountains across the way and it was still stormin' up there and I wondered if that guy and those three folks in rain jackets ever managed to get out of there before things got real crazy. And I didn't stay for long and retraced my steps and kinda jogged the rest of the way back, runnin' on fumes, my steady diet of Pop Tarts and beef sticks and crackers and lemon poppyseed muffins finally catchin' up to me.

View of the Panamints from Red Cathedral

Crazy desert terrain

And I scampered on down to the parking lot and my legs were officially dead. Twenty-four miles, nearly 7,000ft of vertical gain. Hadn't done something quite like that in a good long while, but it was nice—at least—most of it was nice. Snow, sand, desert and rain. Beautiful country, rugged canyons, crazy mountains, a gnarly little storm, lovely sunshine, nice roads, good trails. Yep. It had been a terrific day, one I'm sure to never forget. And what better way to end it than a scenic drive up to Dante's View. So that's what I did. Hopped in the car, started 'er up, and then drove on up there, raindrops ploppin' on the windshield, late afternoon lighting and crazy, puffy clouds elevating the wild desert landscape into something truly sublime.

Dante's View

And I got out of the car and it was cold up there but not as cold as it was in the snowstorm, and there were a few folks out and about taking photos and such, enjoying the sunset, walkin' around, passin' the time in their own unique ways. And I lingered for a bit and took some photos and then my stomach rumbled and I knew it was time to leave. And so I drove on out of there, down the road, off into the desert, pulling off into "The Pads" and settin' up shop on a concrete slab that was covered with lyrics from various Hall and Oates songs. And I wolfed down a freeze-dried meal and got in the ol' sleepin' bag and read a few pages of Life, the Universe and Everything and then promptly passed out, bone tired, sleeping like a baby the whole night through. Good thing too. I had a busy morning ahead of me. But that's a story for another time...